


Fuckin' Acrobats

by carrey



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, M/M, Shameless Big Bang, i just had a lot of fun with this, the Gallaghers and Svetlana appear briefly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrey/pseuds/carrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey joins the show in Chicago, tours for half the year across America, and then returns to the city when they fly overseas and pick up a new crew. The pay’s shit but the security is, surprisingly, pretty good. It was easy, it was routine, and it was all he’d ever known. Growing up in Terry’s family business, Mickey thought there was very little that could phase him. That is, until Ian Gallagher comes along.</p><p>or, Ian’s the cocky new acrobat and Mickey’s the technician in charge of rigging up the show. Circus AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my entry for the Shameless Big Bang!   
> I'm forever grateful to Tanya (ghostofgallavich) for organising it. It's been loads of fun and go check out everyone else's works bc they're incredible!

It’s one of the first warm days of spring. His breath still comes out in puffs of steam in the early morning air and he’s thoroughly grateful for the cigarette clutched between his fingers, but he can feel the warmer weather coming. 

His footsteps crunch the against the hard packed dirt road that leads towards the site, marked clearly by tyre tracks that split off as they reach the open gate. The road behind him is busy despite the early hour, commuters driving past on their way to work, engines loud in the morning stillness.

“Mickey!” There are two guys walking towards him, each with a huge cardboard box in their arms, wearing only t-shirts despite the cold weather. “Thought you’d never arrive.” They both grin, foreheads glistening with sweat.

“Blame the fucking bus, man.” 

The man on the left dumps his box in Mickey’s arms, ignoring his protests, and starts backing away, grin widening at the sight of Mickey’s glare. “Well, you can make start making yourself useful now. It goes over there -“ he jerks his thumb over at a large empty space where some men are starting to set up a tent, “and the yard’s round the back of the trucks, Dan’ll show you.” 

“I’m not a fucking newbie,” Mickey yells at his retreating back, but he doesn’t turn around so Mickey settles for flipping him off as best he can with a box in one arm and a bag in the other.

“Ignore Aaron, you know how he gets at the beginning of the season.” The man beside Mickey shifts the box to one hip, pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. “How’ve you been, anyway?” he asks around the cigarette caught between his teeth.  
 Mickey shrugs. “Nothing new. How was the tour?” 

“Same old. Australia’s fucking hot, ’m so glad we’re up north again.” 

“Yeah well, we’re headed to Canada on the next leg. That’s gonna be a real fucking treat.”

Dan laughs, reaching up to remove the cigarette and exhale the smoke. “I’d forgotten, you hate the cold.” 

“I don’t hate the cold. What’s not to love about fucking frostbite?” 

They dump their boxes in the pile outside one of the caravans, props and costumes for the performances that’ll be shifted inside once the site is set up for the crew, and head towards where the men are starting to unfold the tent. They have to spread out the canvas and then rig it up to the metal frame, and Mickey spends most of the morning scaling ladders and pulling ropes. Even with the whole crew working, it still takes a couple of hours to set up and by the time they take a break it’s midmorning and they’re covered in dust and sweat. They sit against the dirt, spread out in a rough circle as they pass around bottles of water. 

“Jesus, I could go for a beer right now.” Dan leans back against the esky and wipes a hand across his neck, already starting to redden from the sun. 

“Not getting tired yet, are you, boys?” They straighten a little, heads turning to face the man walking towards them.

“Hey Cob,” Dan calls out, lifting a hand to shield his eyes against the sun, now high in the sky.

Cob’s dressed in a dark shirt and grease stained jeans, a cap shading his face like always. Mickey’s not sure he’s ever seen him without it. “Le,” he nods towards Dan. “Milkovich. Good to see you again.” He lifts his gaze to the tent behind them and up this close Mickey can see his face — mouth set, stern but not hostile, and expression critical as he surveys their work. “Make sure you test those ropes twice. I don’t trust the soil in Chicago, ’t's too sandy.” There’s a collective groan from behind Mickey, and a few laughs, but no one complains. No one ignores an order from Cob, unless you’re looking to be strung up from the ceiling of the Big Top by your ankles. 

“Sure thing, boss.” Aaron salutes from where he’s perched on one of the boxes and Cob glares, turning around.

“Insubordination, Harper. Won’t be tolerated.” 

—

The finish up as evening falls, clearing away tools and boxes and equipment, storing it back in one of the trucks. Around the back of the tent is where the trailers are parked, dressing rooms and housing caravans, all clustered around an empty space in the middle. The empty yard is adorned with clumps of people, perched on stools and milk crates and circled around small fires.

Mickey makes his way over to where the rest of the crew sit around one of the fires, lighting up a cigarette and sitting down on a wooden box. Dan passes him a beer and he pops the top off on the metal joint of the box, draining most of it in one long gulp. 

“How’re you enjoying slumming it with us again?” Aaron pretends to nudge him in the side, eyebrows raised comically. “Didn’t miss us too much?”

“Nah man, glad to get rid of you. Enjoy some much needed peace and quiet.”

“Oi Mickey.” He looks across the circle to see Jeremy smirking at him. “How’s the wife? The Russian contortionist.”

“ _Ex_ -wife.” Mickey corrects, rolling his eyes. Technically it was also ex-contortionist — Svetlana had gotten a job at some legal firm, probably because she was an equal blend of cunning and terrifying and could get almost anyone to do anything. 

“Even better. Reckon she’s single? I’d love to see how far back she could bend while I- ah, shit.” He rubs the side of his skull, off of which Daniel’s spoon had just rebounded.

Mickey just rolls his eyes, flipping him off. The other guys laugh, dissolving slowly into their own conversations — catching up, swapping news. Mickey’s not the only one who rejoined the tour in Chicago; a few of the other guys had arrived today as well, now that the circus had finished it’s Australian tour. They’d follow it through most of the country, Canada as well, and then stay here when the tour left for Europe and they picked up a new crew. 

There were a few new performers too — Dan had pointed them out during the day, and he thought he could see a few more new faces around the campsite, but it was too dark to really tell. Mickey didn’t really care, anyway — there were always new routines to coordinate, new stages to construct, new props to get, whose it was didn’t really concern him. 

A shout from the fire next to theirs pulls Mickey from his reverie, and he turns to see some of the clowns standing up, throwing balls between them. 

“You think they ever get tired of playing with balls?” Aaron adopts a faux-critical expression, glancing over at Mickey and winking. Mickey ignores him, turning back to the beer in his hand. Undeterred, Aaron leans closer and opens his mouth to continue goading him. “You know —“

“Fuck off, Harper.” Affronted, Aaron leans back scowling a little, and the other guys laugh. 

Most of the acrobats seem to be seated over in the corner, clustered around their own fire. It’s hard to make it out in the darkness but the flames provide just enough light to see them climbing onto each other’s shoulders, the shouts of laughter carrying easily across the yard. 

“Show offs,” Jeremy mutters as he gets up, stretching his shoulders out and cracking his neck. One by one more of the guys get up, dropping cigarette butts in the fire and packing away their milk crates by one of the trucks, heading off to their caravans for the night.

“Milkovich,” Cob leans over towards him across the dwindling firelight, “I’ve got a new act for you to rig, it’s Diane and one of the new aerialists. You’ll meet with them tomorrow at eight.” 

Mickey sighs, an exhalation of cigarette smoke that’s almost invisible in the darkness. Newbies have a reputation as a pain to work with, often filled with entirely unrealistic ideas about the capacity of a circus tent or the capabilities of steel frames and rope and usually ready to offer up unnecessary and unhelpful suggestions. 

“Better get some sleep,” Cob says pointedly, the direction clear in his tone.

“Yeah, sure.” Mickey reaches over to the esky to pull out another beer, but Cob snaps it shut.

“ _Eight_ , Milkovich.” 

—

It’s still dark when Mickey gets up, the sun catching only the top of the tent and the surrounding trees. He makes himself a cup of coffee inside the trailer — the only thing he can stomach this early in the morning — and has a brief shower. By the time he’s dressed and ready the sun has fully risen, illuminating the remains of last night’s fires and the early morning bustle.

Mickey’s certainly not the first to wake; there are dozens of people already moving about, setting up tight ropes between trucks or testing out makeup, moving props and packing away crates to make room for acrobatics.

Cob looks over from where he’s directing the placement of the arcade games just as Mickey steps out of the caravan. “Cutting it fine, Milkovich.” He nods his head towards the main tent.

“Not late yet,” Mickey mutters, but he makes his way over anyway, glancing back at Cob with raised eyebrows when he reaches the tent opening.

“Mickey!” Someone calls out his name from inside and he blinks until he can make out Diane in the darkness, standing beside one of the metal frames. On her other side is the new guy, but from this distance all Mickey can tell is that he’s tall and lanky with a shock of red hair. 

Getting up closer Mickey can tell that, objectively, the guy’s pretty attractive. Broad-shouldered, with a tight-fitting tank-top and shorts that Mickey swears cover less than half his thighs. The muscles of his arms are well defined and despite the dim light he can make out dozens of freckles adorning his upper arms.

Mickey tears his eyes away and glances over at Diane, who’s got one hand on her hip and the other clutching a trapeze bar and length of rope. 

“This is Mickey. He’s our go-to guy for aerial stunts, he does most of the rigging and set-ups.” She’s known for getting straight to the point, and it’s probably why Mickey likes her so much.

“So, Red, what’s the act?” 

“It’s part of the ‘light and dark’ theme, so we play opposites —“ the guy speaks fast, excitement clear in the upturned corners of his mouth and his green eyes crinkle and that’s probably why it takes Mickey so long to interrupt, though of course he’d never admit it.

“I meant, what do I need to do?” He sounds rude, harsher than he’d intended, but Red only laughs, little more than a huff of air and a grin, and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Right, yeah, sorry.” 

It’s a simple job, similar to a lot of rigging he’d done before, but it’s the kind of work he likes — building things, solving problems. The performers do most of the conceptualising, the big picture thinking and planning how an act would look, but it’s Mickey’s job is to actually make it happen. Setting up the tent might be the biggest job of the show, but there’s no thinking that goes into it. With acts like this he gets to be creative — the only downside is the performers, though Red doesn’t seem too bad, so far.

“You think you can do that?” The guy says it like a challenge, lifting his chin infinitesimally and holding back a grin. 

Mickey only raises an eyebrow in response, and Diane grins, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get started.”

They draw up a diagram on a sheet of paper for reference and Mickey tucks it into his pocket for reference. He’s about to start scaling the ladder when Red calls out. “Don’t you need a harness or something?” The guy’s so obviously a rookie that Mickey just laughs. “You think there’s something funny about safety?” Mickey turns back and he notices that the guy’s smirking, one eyebrow raised, not quite on Mickey’s level of sarcasm but still quite impressive. 

Instead of replying Mickey just rolls his eyes and starts scaling the ladder. Fucking acrobats trying to tell him how to do his job. 

Mickey finishes up around ten, leaving them to keep practising. He does odd jobs, helping Aaron fix a tyre on one of the trucks, setting up some of the sideshows. He stops for lunch around one, grabbing a plate and setting himself down at one of plastic folding tables set up in the main yard, his back to the table and legs on the wrong side of the bench. There aren’t many others already eating lunch, but it’s early and he knows it’ll fill up soon enough.

A thud from behind him makes Mickey swivel around, turning to face the table behind him. Red’s sat himself down on the bench opposite; he’s facing outwards as well, legs too long to sit comfortably tucked under the table. Mickey ignores him, turning back to his food with an almost inaudible sigh.

They sit like that for a few minutes, eating quietly, before Red breaks the silence. 

“Cob can’t be his real name.” He follows the guy’s gaze to the other side of the yard, where Cob is talking to one of the clowns — they appear to be arguing about something, Cob gesturing to one of the caravans. Mickey shrugs, looking back down at his plate and the guy seems unbothered by Mickey’s lack of response, shrugging a little and turning back to his own food. 

Cob wasn’t technically in charge — that was the ringmaster, or the owner, depending on how you looked at — but he certainly ran the entire operation. The whole show wouldn’t mean shit without him, and he knew it. Mickey had no idea how long he’d been there, certainly far longer than Mickey had, but he’d become a sort of fixture in the place. Meet anyone else in the same business, performers and crew alike, and the first thing they’d ask was whether Cob was still there. Then they’d laugh or maybe roll their eyes, shaking their head as if to say ‘of course, they’ll never get rid of him’. He doesn’t know how Cob knows people from all over the country, and beyond, but Mickey’s not surprised. Honestly, the guy’s so mysterious he’d be willing to believe pretty much anything about him. 

Cob’s still talking to the clown, and the guy’s looking more and more pissed off while Cob seems to be even more serene. 

Mickey doesn’t have anywhere near the same amount of self control.

“Oi, slacking off are we, Milkovich?” Aaron walks past, a box cradled in his arms.

He’s spared from answering by Cob, who chooses that moment to look over. “I wanted those boxes in Midway half an hour ago, Harper.” Aaron ducks his head a little, quickening his step a little as he heads towards the sideshow alley.

Mickey likes this — the constant activity, the people moving, the way that he can just blend into background. The pay’s shit but the security is — surprisingly — pretty good, and he knows that during the other half of the year, when the circus is off touring Europe or Canada or some other remote corner of the globe, he can get a decent construction job somewhere. 

“What is it? His real name?” 

Mickey’s almost forgotten who they’re talking about, and takes a moment to reply, his voice coming out perhaps a little more irritated than he intended. “I don’t know, man, you gotta ask him.” Red just tilts his head a little, expectant, and Mickey sighs. “Someone said once it was short for ‘corncob’, fuck knows what that means. But he’s been Cob for as long as anyone here’s known him.”

The guy looks satisfied with that, and turns back to his empty plate. Mickey hadn’t even noticed the food had gone, and he’d only gotten through half of his own. Red stands up, stretching his legs and starting to head back to the kitchen, but stops only a few steps away and turns back.

“I’m Ian, by the way. Ian Gallagher.” 

He starts to turn away, as if he doesn’t really expect a response, but Mickey surprises even himself when he calls out. 

“Mickey.” 

Ian turns back, his cheeks stretching into a grin, and it’s possibly the biggest smile Mickey’s seen. “Nice to meet you, Mickey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: so, I did a whole load of research into circus life, but a lot was either altered or entirely made up, so any mistakes/differences are my own!
> 
> also, I don't own the characters or anything that resembles canon


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They throw the crusts of their sandwiches to the ducks in the ponds, though Yev’s aim is a little off and he ends up hitting one on the head, which then swims its way towards them, quacking loudly. The two of them grab their stuff and go, avoiding the stares of passers by as they walk-run away from the angry bird. They must look ridiculous, out of breath and still clutching sandwich wrappers, a piece of bread he hadn’t managed to throw into the water compressed in Yev’s fist, but Mickey doesn’t mind, especially not when Yev turns to grin at him, cheeks red and hair messed up.

Mickey spends the rest of the day setting up the site, putting together the side show and putting up more permanent lodgings for the crew and performers. Despite the chilly mornings the days are warm and sunny, and the crew find themselves pulling off layers as it progresses.

He passes Ian a couple of times but they don’t speak, either too busy or too engrossed in conversation. The guy seems to have taken a liking to Karen, the annoying gymnast, which is certainly a strike against him. Mickey hasn’t really talked to her since she made a pass on him and he told her where she could shove it, and since then she’s maintained a cold shoulder.

Not that Mickey minds — all performers can keep their distance, he couldn’t give a shit. He tolerates a few, and genuinely likes even less, and could probably count the latter on one hand.

He’s always had few friends, and since moving out of Terry’s circus, and Terry’s circles, he’s really only had Mandy. Add Svetlana and Yevgeny and you’ve got pretty much the entirety of his social circle. It’s small and it’s not quite perfect, but it works.

He’s on pretty good terms with some of the crew members, but they’re not close and that’s how he prefers it. He’s got a routine down and he’s happy and that’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

—

“Oi, Mickey, I’m off to bed,” Dan calls out from the other side of the fire, standing up and stretching. Mickey nods in assent, finishing off the last of his beer and standing up himself. He doesn’t head to their shared caravan yet, instead opting to walk around the back for a smoke.

Dan’s one of the crew members he likes most — the guy’s straight forward, grounded and respects the fact that Mickey keeps to himself. As an added bonus he doesn’t snore, which makes rooming with him pretty fucking good.

He’s just pulled out his cigarette when he sees Ian, walking around the corner, almost hidden in the shadows cast by the caravan. It takes a few moments for Mickey to realise he’s on the phone, one arm gesticulating wildly.

“And then — no, of course not, Carl, acrobats aren’t allowed anywhere near the fireworks…no, they only use them on the last night…there is no way you are sneaking out — put me onto your sister…Carl!…” he huffs, running a hand through his hair, though he looks more amused than frustrated. Mickey shifts forwards and Ian must spot him out of the corner of his eye because he turns, raising a hand in greeting even as he turns his head away, obviously intent on the person at the other end of the line. 

“Hey Fi…yeah, of course, you too…talk later…love you.” 

He hangs up the phone and slips it into his jacket pocket, turning back to face Mickey. 

“Pyromaniac?” He’s a little surprised he says it all — he’s only spoken to this guy once, and he’s not often one to initiate conversation, even if he knows them well.

Ian looks a little startled, as if he hadn’t expected Mickey to hear the phone conversation. “My brother.”

Mickey nods, as if that explains it, and takes another drag on his cigarette. He holds it out to Ian — the guy looks like he could use it — but the other man shakes his head. Mickey just shrugs back, and throws it down into the grass, grinding it under his foot. 

“I’m off.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and glances over at Ian, who smiles back.

“Night.”

Mickey nods in response, and walks past him and back towards the caravans. He gets to his own and glances back once but the guy’s disappeared from sight.

—

He wakes up early the next morning, the sun too bright through the shitty caravan curtains for him to go back to sleep. He heaves himself up, pulls on a jacket and heads outside.

Ten minutes later he’s leaning up against the perimeter fence, cigarette clasped firmly between two fingers. The grey curls of smoke stretch for almost a foot in the cold morning air before dissipating, mixing with the steam of his breath. 

“Anyone ever tell you those will kill you, Mickey?” He hadn’t heard Ian coming up beside him, and startles, attempting to hide his surprise with a drag of the cigarette. The guy’s dressed in what looks like running gear and Mickey suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t miss the use of his name but ignores the comment entirely, taking one last drag on the cigarette before grinding it into the wet grass. 

“What are you doing up so early?” He asks, and then curses himself for asking something so stupid, and the guy grins for a second as if he knows exactly what Mickey’s thinking.

“Thought I’d go for a run, you?”

“I, too, like to exercise my lungs at the crack of dawn,” he says dryly, jerking his chin towards the cigarette butt on the ground. 

Ian laughs, genuine and loud. “Not sure that counts.” 

“Whatever, man.” Ian laughs again and shakes his head, a vaguely superior and annoyingly smug look on his face. The cold air is biting and without the cigarette he’s starting to shiver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need another coffee.” He considers waving or saying goodbye, but instead just turns, heading back towards his caravan.

He reaches the steps and before he can stop himself, he does turn around, searching for the guy, but of course he’s already disappeared. 

—

It’s still cool inside the big top, the air a little stale with most of the flaps pulled shut. Mickey and a few of the other guys are setting up the rows of seating while the performers fit in some last minute practise. 

Ian and some of the other acrobats are taking turns swinging from the trapezes, catching each other and doing flips and turns. One of the guys pretends to push the girl next to him off the platform and she ducks under his arms, stepping forwards to catch the trapeze swinging towards her and hold it still while Ian, on the other platform, mirrors her pose. Someone counts down from three and on one the two of them push off the platforms, swinging past each other. They look like alternating pendulums of a clock, the swinging almost in slow motion. 

Ian’s body makes a perfect bow, arms straight, stomach tensed and feet pointed. Mickey’s never quite gotten the allure of watching people dangle from wooden bars, but watching Ian — and his muscular shoulders — suddenly gives it much more appeal.

They reach the opposite side at the same time and the girl steps off onto the platform effortlessly but Ian stumbles, slipping, and then lets himself fall back, hitting the safety net underneath like a trampoline. He bounces back up and uses the motion to propel himself forwards and towards the edge of the net, bouncing a few times before settling. He looks ridiculous as he tries to pull himself out, feet caught in the webbing and arms stuck. Mickey’s almost tempted to lend a hand, but the sight of the guy, ridiculously muscled and absurdly elegant while swinging through the air, struggling to untangle himself, is too amusing to pass up.

“You right there, Gallagher?” Ian scowls at his mocking tone, renewing his efforts to pull himself free and return to ground level.

“No, I’m actually-“ he manages to roll off the edge of the net and land on his feet on the dirt floor, shaking himself off and running a hand through his hair. “See, fine.”

Mickey grins, arms folded across his chest and eyebrows raised. “Right, looked like you were having the time of your life there.” Without thinking, Mickey takes a step closer. Ian shifts forwards, as if unconsciously mirroring him, and now they’re barely a foot apart. Ian’s eyes are wide, amused, his lips curling up into a smile, and this close Mickey can see the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks.

“I was. In fact-“

“Oi, Mickey, stop your socialising and give us a hand here.” Ian’s interrupted by Aaron, who’s standing next to the not-yet-assembled stands with a wrench in one hand and the other on his hip, looking vaguely irritated. Behind him is Dan, who’s looking at the two of them with a deeply satisfied expression. 

Mickey takes a hurried step back, trying not to be too obvious as he takes a deep breath and exhales quickly. He looks back at Ian, who’s got one hand on the back of his neck, in what looks to be quickly becoming a nervous habit. “See you round, Gallagher. Try not to fall off again.” 

“Hey Mickey.” He wheels around at the sound of his name, and there’s Ian, hand on his hip. “Make sure you catch the rest of the act.”

“Oh, I don’t think anything could top what I just saw.” _God, that was the lamest fucking thing he could have said._

“You’d be surprised. It doesn’t look too bad when we all manage to stay in the air.” Ian shrugs, smirking. 

“There’s no ‘we’ about it, Gallagher, I think you’re the only one who can’t stay up there.” Ian’s face falls, just a fraction, the grin dimming and a look of almost-disappointment taking over. The guy’s practically an open book with how easy he is to read and the combination of puppy dog eyes and the turned-down corners of his mouth pull something in Mickey’s chest. 

He sighs. “I’ll think about it.” _Goddamn puppy dog eyes_. 

Before he can do anything else to embarrass himself he turns back towards where Aaron is waiting impatiently by the stands, bypassing him altogether and heading straight for the end of the row, picking up Aaron’s discarded wrench as he walks past.

It’s fifteen minutes later when Dan approaches, whistling tunelessly and slouching with his hands in his pockets like a B-grade movie villain.

“Hey Mickey,” he begins, drawing out the greeting and adding a layer of implication with every extra second. Mickey chooses to ignore him, remaining turned towards his work even as Dan clears his throat. There is no stopping Dan when he wants something. “Saw you and that new acrobat having a…rather nice chat.” He waits a moment but then continues when it’s clear Mickey isn’t going to reply. “You’re not normally a fan of acrobats.”

“Get to the fucking point, man.” 

“No point, just thought it was odd, that’s all.”

“What’s so fucking odd about talking? We’re doing it right now.”

“Yeah, but you look like you’re about to stab someone with a fork, and you didn’t look nearly so grumpy when you were talking to Ian. In fact, you only looked mildly irritated, which for you is positively exuberant.” 

“How do you know his name is Ian?” and that wasn’t what Mickey had intended to say at all — he’d been expecting something more along the lines of _shut the fuck up_ or _mind your own fucking business_ , and by the size of Dan’s grin he’d been expecting something similar.

“I’m not the one who has a problem with acrobats. Especially not good-looking ones.” He winks, grabbing Mickey’s wrench and moving further down the bench, ignoring Mickey’s protests.

Mickey massages his forehead with his fingers, sighing. Dan was usually alright, if not frequently irritating and with an inability to know when to stop. He was from New York, and dropped out of college to take up a job in the circus, which Mickey suspected had as much to do with getting away from his family as the job itself. He’d joined around the same time as Mickey and is probably the closest he had to a friend. Not that Mickey minded — the crew were alright but most of the performers were annoying and the acrobats in particular were obnoxious, arrogant and conceited. 

“Oi Mickey, you’re not being paid to ogle the performers all day, give us a hand here.”

Mickey sighs and turns towards Aaron, making a show of getting up and heading towards the tool box a few metres away.

—

“Wife’s here, Milkovich.” Mickey looks up from the schedule and Cob jerks his thumb towards the front gates. It’s still quite a distance, but Mickey can just make out Svetlana being pulled along by Yevgeny, who looks as if the only thing keeping him back is his mother’s fingers clasped firmly around his sleeve. 

“Papa!” Yev yells as he gets closer, finally pulling himself free and racing towards Mickey, who bends down to scoop him up in a hug. 

“I will be back at three. Yevgeny does not climb rigging. Does not swing on trapeze. Does not leave ground level,” Svetlana says by way of greeting.

“Yeah, sure, got it.” 

“Back at three.” She gives him a hard glare before bending down to smother Yevgeny in a hug, kissing both his cheeks and adjusting his jacket. “Be good for papa.” She pats Mickey once on the shoulder and her gaze softens momentarily before she turns on her heel and walks out, glancing back only once as she reaches the gates to blow a kiss to Yevgeny.

Technically members of the public aren’t allowed on the circus ground, but Cob turns a blind eye to family members, and Yevgeny always loved visiting the site. He would almost certainly attend the show at some point during the season, but he loved seeing the preparation, the behind the scenes. Mickey didn’t mind showing him around either, it got Svetlana off his back about spending time with Yevgeny and meant he could see his son even while working. 

It hadn’t always been as comfortable between the two of them, Mickey and Svetlana, but they were making it work. The first few years had been hard, but after Terry had been handed a decades-long sentence the three of them and Mandy had moved out of the Southside; Svetlana had gotten a job at some firm, Mandy had started going to community college and Mickey had gotten work with another circus. Five years on and they were doing pretty well for themselves.

“Papa, I wanna see the big tent!” Yev’s voice interrupts Mickey’s train of thought, and the boy grabs onto his father’s hand in an effort to drag him over to the main area.

“The big top, kid. And you can’t get in anyone’s way, there are people practising in there, okay?” 

“Promise.” The kid looks so earnest that it’s hard not to laugh, his expression determined as he walks towards the tent, strides lengthening in an attempt to match Mickey’s longer ones.

He takes Yevgeny to where the big top stands, separated from the sideshow alley and crew by several metres of brown field. Hundreds of square feet of fabric and dozens of tent poles, it’s the centrepiece of the show, red and white-striped like a candy cane, and Mickey figured it had gotta be pretty impressive for a five-year-old kid like Yevgeny. Sometimes, in the right light and the right mood, he even found it a little impressive himself. Sometimes.

Outside there are a number of performers working on their segments, juggling knives and flaming torches, balancing upon balls or perched on wires stretched between two caravans, a harmless two feet off the ground. Crew members are there too, carrying boxes of props or a basket full of makeup and costuming. 

That stuff was delicate, though Mickey hadn’t found that out until he’d started working here. Back at Terry’s show they’d stolen most of the shit, so no one really cared too much what happened to it. Here, though, it was treated like the crown jewels themselves, the makeup stored in eskys to ensure it didn’t melt and the costumes wrapped in individual bags, dry-cleaned and given their own trailer.

Inside the tent are the rest of the performers — some in the corners working on their own shows, but most gathered around the central square, where a couple of the acrobats are dangling above the small crowd. Mickey notices that Ian is there, almost obscured by the shadows but still visible standing on one of the suspended platforms attached to the tent’s support pillars, bar clutched in his hands and obviously waiting for his part to begin. This is the ensemble performance — all the acrobats are involved, and it’s one of the show’s centrepieces. It looked good but the rigging was simple enough for even acrobats to figure out, so Mickey hadn’t been needed to help set up.

Mickey turns around to see Yevgeny, entranced by what was about to happen above, standing up on one of the milk crates, as if the extra foot might give him a better view. He shakes his head, holding back a grin, and waves his hand in front of the boy’s transfixed face. Yevgeny starts, as if surprised to see Mickey there in front of him, and then follows his dad’s directions and hops off the crate, which Mickey leans down to pick up. 

He takes him around the back, to where the two of them would have an unimpeded view of the practise from a raised platform that formed part of one of the sets. They’re obscured from view by thick curtains drawn across the backstage area, but a small gap allows the two of them to see the show pretty clearly, and Yev looks a mix of nervous and excited at being allowed backstage.

The tech crew must also be having a run through because all of a sudden the lights dim, a spotlight breaking out to shine across the acrobats assembled on the platforms. The six of them ready themselves, adjusting their costumes and making last minute light checks to ensure it would be visible to the audience down below. The only one Mickey can identify is Ian, who stands at the back of the platform on the right. 

The two performers holding the trapezes are poised on the edge of each platform, waiting for the music to start.

The drums come first, booming through the tent and shuddering through Mickey’s chest. Yevgeny reaches out to grab Mickey’s hand and, though he’d never tell Svetlana, something swells a little in his chest. The beat changes and the acrobats swing down, their bodies in sync with both each other and the music. Ian begins to climb the pole that stretches up above the platform, and then across a horizontal pole towards the centre. It’s only once he reaches the centre of the tent that Mickey realises he was being mirrored by another performer, and then the two of them drop down onto tissues, wrapping themselves up and then letting themselves go, somehow mirroring the acrobats on the trapezes. 

The act is about ten minutes long, not too complex but pretty flashy. The music is some kind of techno thing with a strong beat, well-coordinated with the show but grating on Mickey’s nerves. There’s a reason he rarely watches the performances, especially the shows with audiences, but he knows Yevgeny was keen to see it, and he’s happy to oblige this once.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s also kind of interested to see how Ian and Diane’s act turns out. Professional reasons. To see if his rigging works.

If he’s really being honest with himself, he knows his rigging works and its a lot more than professional curiosity that keeps him riveted to the spot throughout Ian’s show.

Once the acrobats finish their run through they take a couple of minutes’ break and Mickey offers to show Yev around. He’s been to circuses before, but now that he’s a little older he’s more interested in how it works. Svetlana insists on taking him to gymnastics lessons and teaching him how to juggle and shit, which Mickey thinks is the gayest shit imaginable, but whenever he says that Svetlana just rolls her eyes.

“You work in circus and you are gay, yes?” Mickey’s tried pointing out that he’s only a crew member but she just rolls her eyes and mutters something in Russian. 

Yev insists on seeing the tightrope walkers, and they let him have a go walking along it, though Mickey makes sure one of them is always holding his hand even though he’s barely two feet off the ground. Honestly, the kid isn’t bad, surprisingly coordinated for a five year old, though Mickey’s certain that’s Svetlana’s genes.

Mickey suggests they go out and get lunch, which they eat in a park near the circus grounds. They throw the crusts of their sandwiches to the ducks in the ponds, though Yev’s aim is a little off and he ends up hitting one on the head, which then swims its way towards them, quacking loudly. The two of them grab their stuff and go, avoiding the stares of passers by as they walk-run away from the angry bird. They must look ridiculous, out of breath and still clutching sandwich wrappers, a piece of bread he hadn’t managed to throw into the water compressed in Yev’s fist, but Mickey doesn’t mind, especially not when Yev turns to grin at him, cheeks red and hair messed up.

After that Mickey has to get back to work, and he leaves Yev in the kids’ section, where the full-time circus kids stay. He heads back over towards the main tent and sets about helping the other crew members with the curtains, floor to ceiling red velvet like an honest-to-goodness old-fashioned theatre. 

Most of the crew is there, a dozen or so guys putting the last finishing touches on the tent’s interior. Jeremy’s in a particularly bad mood, his already perpetually-unpleasant demeanour made worse by the prolonged period of time spent with performers over the last couple of days. 

“Why does he even work in the fucking entertainment industry if he hates entertainers?” Aaron mutters darkly, leaning over to where Mickey’s checking one of the set pieces so he won’t be overheard. “Surely a mechanic could work anywhere, why’d he have to pick here?”

“You’re not such a ray of sunshine yourself,” Dan interjects, grinning broadly. “Oh don’t look so smug, Mickey, you’re the moodiest of us all.”

“I’m not fucking moody,” Mickey bites back, realising too late that it was exactly the response Dan wanted.

“Oh really? Who was it who dragged me from our caravan, in the middle of the night, and forced me to go bunk with Aaron, because I was talking in my sleep that _one time_? And then wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the day?” 

“You were being really fucking loud,” Mickey says, now more amused than angry.

“And it was really fucking cold outside.”

“If you two lovebirds are done, Jeremy’s looking this way so if you could please shut the fuck up,” Aaron interrupts, and the three of them look back down at the work in front of them.

—

The day of the first show is always stressful, crew and performers buzzing around like flies, flitting between tents and trailers, carrying props and perfecting the spiels they’d deliver to the audience. 

Cob, if possible, seems even more erratic than usual. 

“Smile, Le. If the wind changes you’ll want something a little prettier to show to the audience.” 

“You do know that’s just a superstition, Cob,” Aaron calls out, standing at the back of the small circle of crew members.

“Shut it, Harper. You’ll do what I tell you and there’ll be no complaining.” There’s a murmur of assent from the guys assembled and he waits a few seconds for dramatic effect before launching into the running schedule. It’s the same show they’ve performed dozens of times already and they could probably all recite it in their sleep, but it’s a pre-show ritual anyway. Cob calls each guy’s name with the formality of a military roll call and then they’re sent to their stations. 

Mickey’s directed into the main tent where he’s to do a run through of the aerial performances. Inside, Diane and Ian are running through their act, practising on the rig he’d assembled the day before.

“Jesus Christ!” Diane’s looking frustrated — her French accent, softened by years in an American circus, is clear only when she’s cursing, and right now its unmistakeable. 

Usually Mickey would just walk past, leaving them to sort it out themselves or come to him if they needed anything, but he finds himself walking towards where they lean, sweaty and red faced, against the centre pole. 

“You guys alright?” 

Diane looks up and Mickey can’t read her expression before she furrows her eyebrows and purses her lips. “We can’t get this goddamned grip right. We did everything you said the other day and for some reason it’s not goddamned working.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her use a word stronger than ‘goddamned’, but she spreads it pretty liberally through her speech, using each with an anger that’s more pronounced than any of Mickey’s ‘fucks’.

He can’t help with the move itself — he knows almost nothing about leaping off a metal bar thirty feet above the ground and grabbing someone’s hands in midair, but he does know how the equipment works. “Check the spacing, the distance between two trapezes could be off.”

“Done that.” 

“Are you sure the two bars line up?” She just raises her eyebrows and gives a huff of annoyance. “Okay, okay, I’ll check it out.”

“I’m gonna go get some water. Ian, watch what he does.” She stalks off, scowl still fixed firmly on her face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her annoyed.”

“Only on opening night.” Calm and mild mannered at every other point, her perfectionist streak produced it’s own brand of nerves and frustration.

“You know her well?” He appears nonchalant, arms crossed and leaning back against the pole, but underneath he looks curious. 

“A little. We’ve worked together a long time. I knew her husband a few years ago, and he’s the one that got me a job here.” He doesn’t know why he keeps talking, and shuts his mouth as soon as he’s finished. 

“She’s married to Marcus, right?” Mickey nods, not looking up from where he’s re-rigging the trapeze. 

Mickey can tell he’s about to ask another question and he straightens up, stepping back from the rig. “Right, well, I think I’ve sorted it out.” 

Ian jumps a little at Mickey’s words, running a hand through his hair as he stands up straight. 

“Let me know if its still not working.” 

“Uh, sure,” Ian says, but Mickey’s already turning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting one chapter a day until the end of the week, so quick updates y'all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some reason he can’t get Ian’s words out of his head. _That’s what an acrobat does, Mick_. The shortening of his name — casual, as if it hadn’t meant anything. The only one who’d ever done that was Mandy, and he can’t think of anyone else who’d ever bequeathed him a nickname. It feels oddly personal, and almost uncomfortably intimate. It was only one less syllable, but he can’t shake off the feeling.

Mickey is woken up at half past six needing to piss and it takes him almost ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and over towards the portable toilets set up for the crew and performers. He’s on his way back to the caravan, walking behind the trucks along the perimeter fence, when he hears someone coming up behind him. 

“ _God_ ”, Mickey mutters with a scowl. It better not be Jeremy, the early fucking riser, it’s too close to dawn for any of his shit. 

It’s a relief when, turning, he sees Ian jogging towards him, shorts on despite the cold morning air and bright ginger hair looking windswept. _Windswept_. From a fucking _jog_. 

“Hey Mickey,” he says, slowing to a stop beside the shorter man, and he doesn’t even sound breathless.

“You do this shit every morning?” he snaps, in lieu of a greeting, and he doesn’t mean to sound so harsh.

Ian grins despite the tone, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, the stunning vista,” he waves one hand towards the industrial yard beside the showground, “the lovely weather.” Mickey glances up at the grey skies. “What’s not to love about a morning jog?”

The guy’s an absolute dork, but his smile — which reaches all the way up his face and crinkles the corners of his eyes — fills Mickey with the sudden and inexplicable desire to mirror the gesture, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from grinning.

“I can think of a whole lot of things, actually.”

“You’re not shirtless every night in front of hundreds of people.”

“Like you mind any of that shit.”

Ian winks, reaching his arms up in an exaggerated stretch and letting his shirt ride up his waist. Mickey determinedly trains his eyes above Ian’s left shoulder, scowling slightly.

“Show off.” He mutters. Ian laughs, and Mickey might smile slightly in response. Honestly it’s more like a grimace. He’s not amused in the slightest by Ian and his dorky fucking grin.

“Fucking acrobats.”

Ian pretends to pout, but Mickey can see the barely-concealed amusement in his face as he takes a few steps back. “See you later, Mickey.” Mickey nods once as Ian takes off and then keeps walking, only letting himself smile once he was sure the redhead was a good few hundred feet away.

—

“Hey Mick.”

Mickey turns to see Ian leaning against one of the tent poles, some sheets of paper in his hand. His hair is sticking up as if he’s run his hands through it and his brows furrowed slightly. Mickey doesn’t answer, just lifts an eyebrow.

“You got a minute?”

Mickey takes a few steps over to the other man, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you need now?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to look over this move. I need an outsider opinion.”

“I thought you were the performer, man. Don’t tell me you need someone else to come up with your tricks.”

“Fuck you.” Ian grins, rolling his eyes. “I only need the rigging done.”

“Can’t Diane help you with that?”

Ian shrugs. “She’s busy.”

“Alright, I got half an hour.”

Ian claps his hands together, a genuine smile spreading across his face, and Mickey can’t help but grin a little in response. “Let’s get started.”

Ian asks a few questions, _why use this hook instead of that one, what’s the second loop in the rope for_ , almost bouncing with curiosity, and Mickey grumbles but he doesn’t really mind it. It’s rare that the performers are particularly interested in how it works — they generally stick to a need to know basis, content to know enough about the equipment to keep them safe, but not too fussed with the specifics. Mickey finds himself letting Ian attach a few of the ropes himself, showing him how to hook them up. He takes them apart and redoes them himself afterwards — he’s not an idiot — and Ian pouts, throwing his hands up in mock frustration. 

“Hey, I did them fine, you said so yourself.”

“Yeah, but which one of us is qualified for this shit?” 

“Are you actually even qualified?” 

“What the establishment doesn’t know won’t kill ‘em.” Ian laughs, a genuine laugh, and Mickey finds himself almost wanting to smile back, but he clamps down on that almost immediately. He’s surprised to find that he really doesn’t mind the guy.

—

“Hey,” Ian’s voice interrupts Mickey’s daydreaming and a shadow falls over the small patch of sun he’d managed to find. He thinks that maybe he should be more worried that he already knows this guy from his voice alone, but he ignores that.

“Oi, you’re blocking the sun.”

Mickey doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel Ian step to the side, letting the sun land back on him. “I was going to go get lunch but I don’t know anywhere good in this part of town. Wanna save me from a shitty and overpriced meal?”

Mickey opens his eyes at that, squinting into the sunlight. “Shit, man, you ask a lot. First you take advantage of my rigging experience and now you want me to share good places to eat?”

“I’m demanding, what can I say?”

“High maintenance is what you are.” He sounds grumpy but Ian just snorts, mouth turning up at one corner, a rueful expression on his face.

“You could say that.” He shrugs and the expression clears, a smirk taking its place, and god, if Mickey isn’t turned on by it. “Now, are you coming or what?

The two of them end up sprawled on a park bench, burgers clutched in their hands and too busy eating to make conversation. They’re in some Northside reserve, with joggers and dog walkers and young couples pushing prams who give Ian and Mickey dirty looks as they pass by, as if they had a sixth sense that could detect his ‘fuck-u-up’ tattoos from several feet away.

Mickey glances over at Ian just as the latter pops the last of his burger into his mouth, reaching over and grabbing Mickey’s empty wrapper without asking, taking them both over to the bin. He sucks the last of the mustard and mayo off the tips of his fingers, making an exaggerated expression of satisfaction and rubbing his stomach for dramatic effect.

“Don’t joke about it, man, those are the best burgers in Chicago. Took me a few years of living here but I finally found the only good quality, decent priced burgers in the entire city.”

Ian laughs, throwing himself back down on the bench and spreading his legs out in front of him. “That’s a big accomplishment.”

“Tell me you never wanted the same.”

“Oh, it was my lifelong dream.”

“Lifelong dream? To run away and join the circus and eat good fucking burgers?” Ian shrugs, looking away slightly. “Shit, really?” Mickey laughs, a mix of amused and incredulous.

“The ‘run away and join the circus' bit? Yeah. Wanted it since I was a kid.”

“When’d you join?”

“Ran away when I was seventeen. Joined up with this shitty, mostly illegal show and toured around the country with them. After a few years I got my act together and joined this one. My family thought I was crazy.”

“Acrobatics doesn’t run in the family?”

“No, shit no. I mean, you could definitely call _them_ a circus, but I don’t think any of them had seen a performance in their life. Fiona — my older sister — absolutely lost it when I left. I was going through a bit of a rough time and, er — they didn’t approve.” He rubs a hand against the back of his neck and avoids looking at Mickey’s face, keeping his eyes trained down and slightly to the left.

“Does it live up to your expectations?” Ian looks grateful at the subject change, perking up a little and grinning at Mickey.

“Well, the food’s shit, _burgers excepted_.” He says it half-jokingly and half-placatingly, jerking his head in the direction they’d entered the park as if to give personal thanks to the diner they’d bought them from. “I like the lifestyle though, and the constant moving.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “You running away from something? Any criminal record you need to tell me about?”

Ian laughs. “Running away, yes. Wanted by the police, no.” He looks slightly uncomfortable again, and Mickey doesn’t push it. If the guy wants to say something, he can, but Mickey won’t force him to. 

“I like the stability of always moving. I know it sounds kind of contradictory…”

“Stability? You’re always packing up and leaving.”

“Exactly! It’s always the same, you set up, you perform a few shows, you pack up. You always know what the next few weeks will look like.” The guy’s leaning forwards, elbows on his knees and hands out, palms up and fingers spread.

Mickey shrugs a little, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. 

“Want one?” Ian shakes his head, looking mildly regretful.

“Quit when I first joined the show. Apparently smoking’s bad for your lungs.” He dips his head a little and grins.

“So I’ve heard,” Mickey shrugs, taking a long drag on the cigarette in his hand. “‘Was thinking of quitting, actually.” He surprises himself when he says it, though it’s not something particularly personal. He sucks in again to cover his own surprise at the admission and ends up almost coughing. 

Ian has the decency to look away, though Mickey can see the corner of his mouth curl in amusement. 

“What about you? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the circus type.” Ian’s expression isn’t the usual one Mickey sees when people ask the same question — there’s no mocking, no derision, the kid’s genuinely just curious.

“Family business. It’s how my parents met — my mom was a performer and my dad was crew. God knows how he got that job.”

Unlike his mother, Mickey had never had any desire to be on stage. She’d been an acrobat, part of one of the Ukraine’s biggest circuses before she’d moved to America and met Terry. He had no memory of seeing her perform — she’d died when he was young, from a faulty tent rigging collapsing during practise one day. The circus had been shut down and Terry had moved the family to Chicago, starting his own.

“Travelled most of America, but of course I never got to see any of it. Went to New York three times but never saw more than the paddock we performed in.”

“You’re not missing much, Times Square sucks.” Ian shrugs, but there’s something else there. 

Mickey’s not one to push — generally, he’s not one to ask questions at all, but there’s something easy about talking to the guy.

“Ah well, we’re going there this trip so I guess I’ll see it for myself soon enough.” 

They get up around ten minutes later and start heading back to the campsite. They’re probably going to be late and Cob’ll certainly be pissed off but Mickey’s too full to walk any faster and Ian doesn’t seem too concerned with punctuality.

When Mickey points it out, Ian only shrugs. “I’m working on my own stuff this afternoon so I’m not technically late at all.”

“Shit, man, you gonna leave this all on me? At least if we were both late Cob’d have to spread out his anger.”

“Sorry to let you down, but you’re on your own here.” Ian shrugs with faux innocence, lips pursed as if holding back a laugh. 

“Fuck you, man.”

They settle into silence, Mickey scowling and Ian adopting a nonchalant expression in response to Mickey’s glares. They’re a minute or two from the site when Ian breaks the silence.

“You wanna come to the show tonight?” 

“Why?”

“Thought you might want to see where your hard work went, that’s all.” At Mickey’s blank look he elaborates. “With the trick the other day? Plus the stuff you helped Diane and me with.”

“I don’t know, I don’t really watch the shows.”

“Really?” Ian looks incredulous. “You work at a circus but don’t watch the shows?”

“Don’t know the last time I saw a show.” That isn’t strictly true — the last time he’d seen one had been when he was a kid, working for Terry in a dodgy small-time operation, but Ian doesn’t need the details.

“Guess they’d get boring after a while.” The guy looks like he feels the exact opposite — and Mickey isn’t surprised, he seems the type of guy who’d enjoy things like watching the circus for fun — but Mickey appreciates his withholding of judgment. 

They walk through the gates and Mickey can see Cob outside the big top, talking to some of the performers. Mickey veers off, heading around the other way to avoid being spotted.

“See you Mickey.”

Mickey turns, jerking his head in farewell, and has just turned back away when the guy calls out, “If you change your mind, you’re always welcome.” He turns back to see Ian grinning, eyebrows raised in challenge. In response, Mickey rolls his eyes heavily, hoping that even if Ian can’t see it from that distance he’ll get the sentiment.

—

Mickey does end up watching the show. He’s not entirely sure why — he’s only needed for operating the sideshow alley during half-time, and he usually spends the length of the show smoking around the back, but instead he gets Dan to cover his shift with promises of a free meal and shift-swap later and heads over to backstage.

He’s got a decent view but he refuses to climb the ladders, even though it’d give him a better view, because he’s still intent on not admitting to himself that he’s genuinely watching a circus performance. Sure, he’s seen them before — it’s hard not to while you worked in a circus, and the night before the premiere they all gathered around and watched the show, but it’s something about skipping out on a shift and risking Cob’s wrath just because some acrobat asked him to that really bothers him. 

Not that he was likely to tell said acrobat that. For all Ian knew Mickey watches the shows all the time, enjoys them even. 

Whatever Mickey’s internal grumblings, he has to admit the performance itself isn’t bad, though he doesn’t feel bad slipping out fifteen minutes before the first half ends to head back to the sideshow alley.

“Nice of you to join us again, Mickey,” Aaron calls out as he comes closer, flicking out the last of his cigarette. “How’d you enjoy life on the other side?”

“Better than being with you dickheads.”

“Alright, shut up and focus,” Cob calls out, mercifully arriving just as Mickey’s taking his place behind one of the machines. “You know the drill.”

The rest of the night is relatively busy — entertaining customers, running the machines, handing out prizes. He doesn’t envy Dan, who’s stuck on the kiddy section, and feels a smug sense of satisfaction when he sees Jeremy’s been relegated to checking the portable toilets they’ve got set up.

—

“Not bad, Gallagher.” 

Ian starts, whipping his head around. He spots Mickey, props in hand, making his way towards the storage trailer and visibly lights up, a grin taking over the surprised expression. “You saw it?”

Mickey shrugs, suddenly a little uncomfortable. “The first half, yeah. Wasn’t gonna stick around for the whole thing,” he adds, as if that might make it a little better.

Ian’s grin widens, and despite the sheen of sweat and the obvious exhaustion he looks excited, still revved up on adrenaline. “What’d you think?” 

“It wasn’t that bad. I can see why you’d need some help coming up with your acts though. How often did you just swing off a trapeze?”

“That’s what an acrobat _does_ , Mick. We swing on trapezes?”

Mickey rolls his eyes, shifting the box from one hip to the other. “Whatever, man. I gotta put this stuff away.” He jerks his head towards the trailer.

“I can help if you’d like.” 

“Looking for some experience as a crew member? Come on, your performance wasn’t that bad.”

“No, I mean- I- I just wanted to help. I mean, you look like you’ve got your hands full-“ Mickey snorts out a short laugh. “If you wanted, I mean.” He shrugs, and then runs a hand through his hair, and its that nervous gesture that snaps Mickey out of it.

“Nah man, I’m good. Don’t you have something to do? Some weird post-show acrobat ritual?”

“What, like a human sacrifice? No, we reserve that for the last show.” Mickey laughs, despite himself. “Tonight’s just a plain old offering of a virgin. I won’t be needed for that one.” He stops, realising the implications of what he just said, and begins to turn red. If the light was better, Mickey bets his freckles would have disappeared in the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks.

Mickey grins, raising his eyebrows before turning away, hiding the grin on his face.

“Hey, Mickey,” Ian calls out and Mickey pauses, turning his head to face the other man. “Thanks for coming.”

He doesn’t respond except for a slight jerk of the chin but Ian smiles anyway, stuffing his hands in his pockets and half-shrugging as he turns away.

—

For some reason he can’t get Ian’s words out of his head. _That’s what an acrobat does, Mick_. The shortening of his name — casual, as if it hadn’t meant anything. The only one who’d ever done that was Mandy, and he can’t think of anyone else who’d ever bequeathed him a nickname. It feels oddly personal, and almost uncomfortably intimate. It was only one less syllable, but he can’t shake off the feeling.

_That’s what an acrobat does, Mick._

There’s something about the guy — the easy way he smiles, the way he laughs even at Mickey’s surly remarks and early morning ill-temper, the way he runs a nervous hand through hair that is both charmingly and obnoxiously red. 

Fucking acrobats.


	4. Chapter 4

Mickey’s phone rings just as he’s heading out the door towards the bathrooms. He grabs it off the cabinet beside his bed and presses answer, holding it between his ear and shoulder.

“Mickey,” Svetlana says from the other end, her voice raspy and congested and somehow making the Russian accent even more pronounced. “I am sick. Cannot come. Mandy will take Yevgeny to circus.”

“Right.” There’s a moment’s pause. “Feel better.”

“Take care of Yevgeny.” He hears the beep signalling she’s hung up and slips the phone into his pocket.

Mickey arrives early enough to the showers that there are few people there, and he’s in and out in ten minutes. He might be a fan of long showers but they’re a luxury he can’t afford while on tour, and something he makes up for three-fold as soon as he’s back at his flat in Chicago. The place itself mightn’t be luxurious, but the fact that he’s only spending it with Mandy, Svetlana and Yevgeny, rather than sixty other people, means he can afford to take a little more time for himself.

—

Mandy arrives half an hour before the show’s set to start that afternoon, being dragged along by Yev in much the same way he’d dragged Mickey. He’s clutching a snow cone in one hand, the blue flavouring staining the outside of his mouth. When he spots Mickey he calls out, letting go of Mandy and breaking into a run. He smashes into Mickey’s legs with a force that knocks Mickey back slightly, and he stumbles trying to keep the dripping snow cone away from his clothes.

“Hey, kid. How are you?”

“Mandy bought me a snow cone,” he bursts out, holding it up as if offering Mickey some.

“Thanks but no thanks, kid, it’s all yours.” He gives Mandy a nod and she pulls him in for a hug, tousling his hair.

“Oi, get off me.”

“Look who’s so precious about his hair. No one’s going to see you, anyway, it’s not like you’re in the show.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he glances down at Yevgeny, but luckily the kid’s still engrossed in his snow cone, though Mandy smacks him upside the head, grinning. 

Mickey starts leading them towards the big top, walking slowly to accommodate Yev’s constant detours. They look around the sideshow alley, letting Yev attempt to toss balls into the mouths of moving clowns (“Clowns are fucking scary, man, no idea why this thing’s so popular”). Yev manages to convince Mickey to have a go at the mallet swing, eagerly claiming the bear Mickey wins in the process. 

“He’s just gonna smear blue dye on it, come on, let’s find somewhere he can wash his hands,” Mandy suggests.

Mickey ends up taking them over to the bathroom van, traditionally reserved for performers and crew, after taking one look at the queues outside the bathrooms. They’re waiting outside for Yev to wash his hands when Mickey hears a whistle from behind them. Ian emerges from around the corner of the caravan, hands in his pockets and looking all the world like he’s not about to perform dangerous stunts in front of thousands of people.

“Mickey,” he says, noticing them and changing course.

“Gallagher,” Mickey nods. 

The guy gets closer and Mickey can sense, rather than see, Mandy checking him out. She sticks out a hand, sweeping her hair — now a shade of light brown — behind her shoulders. 

“Hi, I’m Ian.”

“Mandy, Mickey’s sister.” 

“Ah, the elusive sister he keeps mentioning.” 

She glances sideways at Mickey, her surprise obvious, and then back to Ian. “Are you on the crew?”

He grins, as if there’s something ridiculous about the idea. “Nah, I’m an acrobat.”

Mandy glances over at Mickey again, this time in mocking surprise. “I didn’t know you hung out with acrobats.”

Ian laughs, properly this time. “I’d say it’s more like I forced my presence on him, he doesn’t seem particularly fond of our breed.”

“He always was hostile and unfriendly,” Mandy laments, shrugging.

“Right, if you two have finished talking about me…”

“Oh no, Mick, we’re just getting started.” The two of them laugh, and Mickey scowls, crossing his arms in a juvenile display of annoyance.

“I swear to fuc-“

The caravan door bangs open to reveal Yev, hands and face clean, though with considerable amounts of water all over his clothes. Mickey risks a glance at Ian’s face but the guy just looks curious, glancing between the three of them.

“Uh…Ian, this is Yevgeny,” Mandy says, when it becomes clear Mickey isn’t going to introduce them.

“Is he yo-“

“Gallagher, where the fuck have you been?” Cob’s voice interrupts, and Mickey is torn between relief Ian hadn’t finished his question and alarm at Cob’s tone. “Milkovich, what the fuck are you doing here?” Cob seems to realise it’s not just the two of them, turning towards Mickey’s sister. “Hello Mandy.”

“Hey Cob, nice to see you again.” 

Cob nods, and then turns back to Mickey and Ian. “You two — hurry up. You’ve got places to be. If you’ll follow me, Mandy, Yev, I’ll show you to your seats.” 

“We’ll meet you after the show,” Mandy calls back as she leads Yevgeny off, and Mickey jerks his head in response.

“Your brother’s trouble, Mandy, I’m telling you.” 

“Don’t I know it.” Mandy rolls her eyes in an elaborate show and shoots a look back at the two of them and Mickey sends her the finger before walking off.

Ian’s already gone, probably realising he’s late; Mickey can’t blame him — he wouldn’t want to contend with Diane in a bad mood. Well, wouldn’t want to do it again — he still has flashbacks to the time he’d slept through their morning rehearsal and she’d had to call on Jeremy as a last minute stand-in. He doesn’t think she’s ever quite forgiven him.

He heads towards the sideshow alley and tries to shake off the lingering feeling of irrational disappointment that he won’t be seeing Ian’s show.

—

Mickey waits outside the tent for them, several feet away from the doors to avoid the crowds of people spilling out into the night, talking excitedly and still a little dazed by the show. Mandy and Yevgeny are some of the last to exit, Yev chattering loudly as he drags his aunt along. Something in his chest expands a little when he sees the two of them, comfortable, an actual family now. 

It takes him a second to notice that Mandy’s talking to someone behind her, and it’s not until the crowd clears that he sees Ian on her other side, and they seem pretty cosy.

It’s Ian who spots Mickey first, directing them out of the crowd and over to where he stands, slipping through tourists as Yev runs between peoples’ legs. As soon as he reaches Mickey, he’s off, talking a mile a minute and describing every inch of the show in a blow-by-blow recount. 

“Hey,” Ian offers his greeting quietly, as if he doesn’t want to interrupt Yevgeny, and Mickey nods in response, jerking his head to the side to indicate they should make their way to the gate. 

“So, how was it?” Mickey directs this at Mandy as soon as Yev finishes his story, and she glances over at Ian, grinning.

“It was really good, actually. The acrobats were very impressive, of course.” Ian does a fake bow and she giggles, honest to god _giggles._

“We do it for the fans, really. Without you…” he puts a hand over his heart and adopts his most earnest expression, “we’re nothing.”

“You’ve got your number one fan right here.”

“Jeez, Mandy, you’ve only seen the show once,” Mickey points out, raising his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t talking about me,” she says, raising her eyebrows, the serious expression she’s adopted beginning to crack. Mickey scowls, folding his arms and determinedly looking away.

“Oh, now don’t be like that, we all know it’s just jealousy that you’re not up there in tight shorts, shaking your booty for the world to see.” She manages about half a second of seriousness before she glances at Ian and the two of them crack up. Mickey’s scowl deepens and he rolls his eyes at the two of them, who seem to be set off every time they so much as glance at each other.

“Well, it’s looks like the two of you have been getting pretty cosy. If you’ll excuse me, it’s late and I’m ready to get to bed.”

“Such an old man, Mick,” Mandy says, but she comes to a stop anyway. She gives Mickey a half-hug, and then steps back and lets him hug Yev.

“I better get going too, see you Mickey, Yev. It was lovely to meet you, Mandy, your kid is so cute.” He glances down at Yev, who seemed apparently unaware of the conversation until now, and waves at the three of them as he turns around and heads off.

Mandy shoots Mickey a glance and then opens her mouth to correct him but Mickey shoots her a glare that says ‘don’t say anything’ and she shuts her mouth, presumably more out of surprise than anything else.

“Mickey-“ she starts as soon as Ian’s out of earshot, but he just hugs her tight again, crouching down to ruffle Yev’s hair and kiss the top of his head, before taking a couple of steps back.

“Mickey! Where are you-” 

“Bye, Mandy!” He calls as he walks away, and he hears her annoyed _‘ugh’_ as she heads off with Yev.

—

It’s about half an hour later, once he’s brushed his teeth and is standing outside the door of his caravan, that he hears his phone ring. He picks up on the second ring and Mandy’s voice greets him immediately.

“What the fuck, Mickey?”

“What do you mean, _what the fuck?_ ”

“You’ve got a massive boner for this guy and you haven’t even told him you’ve got a son?”

“Hey, I do not-“

“You so do. It’s so painfully obvious that not even Iggy wouldn’t miss it.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I am not, and you know it.”

“Goodnight Mandy,” Mickey interrupts, rolling his eyes. 

“Man up and tell the guy that Yev’s yours and _stop insinuating that I’m a parent._ ” She hangs up, and he throws his phone onto his bed, scowling when it drops off on the other side. He doesn’t bother retrieving it, just pulls open the covers on his bed and gets in, pulling them roughly back over himself. He lies there, scowling, arms crossed, for what feels like hours before he falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s the middle of the night when the buzzing of his phone pulls Mickey from sleep, the vibrations echoing through the cheap wooden cabinet beside him and causing Dan to stir and mutter from the bunk above him.

“Shut that fucking thing off,” he mumbles, and Mickey can hear him shifting around as he tries to block out the noise.

Glancing at the caller ID, Mickey’s surprised to see Mandy’s name pop up, and swipes across to answer the call.

“What?” His voice is thick with sleep, and he massages his forehead with his fingers as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “If it’s about Ian thinking Yev’s yours-“

“Terry’s dead.” Mandy sounds hesitant, her voice small even from the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. How?” Mickey’s well and truly awake now, his heart beating faster as he sits up in bed.

“Some guy in prison. They got into a fight. The guy, I think he was- I think it was a fag bash.” Of course. Terry Milkovich, who _wouldn’t have no queers in his house or he’d kill them with his bare hands_ , who tried to kill his own son when he caught him fucking another guy.

“That’s...I’m-” He stops, heart thundering too hard to hear his own thoughts.

“I know, Mick, me too.” Her voice is heavy with something like relief, the sound of two decades of fear and hatred lifting off her shoulders. “It’s early, I’ll call you later. ‘Night.”

“‘Night Mandy.” She hangs up and Mickey puts down the phone on his nightstand, running a hand through his hair. It didn’t quite feel real yet. Terry hadn’t been a part of their lives since they’d left, but the threat had always been there, the fear that at any time he could find them, hunt them down. Mickey still had the occasional dream about him, memories of flying fists and splattered blood, long-healed bones aching in the middle of the night. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and then lies back down. His muscles are tired from the last few days’ work, but beyond that is a deep-seated exhaustion, the weight of years and years of fear that he hadn’t even acknowledged until now.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the underside of Dan’s mattress. Despite how tired he is, he can’t get to sleep, his mind replaying the words of his and Mandy’s phone conversation over and over - the words, Terry's dead, I know, me too, Terry's dead, I know, me too, Terry's dead. It was so surreal, how two words could mean so much. He sighs, and resigns himself to a sleepless night.

—

Mickey’s still awake when the sun rises, his eyes red and puffy from the interrupted sleep. Dan gets up around seven, pulling himself out of bed and stumbling around the enclosed space grabbing his clothes and toothbrush. 

“Who the fuck calls in the middle of the night?” He asks as he’s lacing up his shoes, voice more amused than annoyed.

“My sister.” 

“Oh, anything important?” He glances up at Mickey. He’s met Mandy a couple of times and always seemed to take a liking to her, and he looks genuinely concerned. 

“Nah, man.” He doesn’t want to go into it — doesn’t think he can, and Dan doesn’t push it. 

“Right. Well, tell Mandy some of us need our beauty sleep and if she could please keep her social calls limited strictly to daylight hours, that’d be appreciated.” He winks and then heads out of the caravan, toiletries in one hand and towel in the other. 

—

Breakfast is the usual bowl of cereal and piece of buttered toast, with a cup of lukewarm coffee. It always takes him a few weeks to get used to having breakfast everyday, something he doesn’t do while he’s in Chicago but that’s mandatory here. He supposes it’s good, breakfast being the most important meal of the day or some shit, but his stomach is still not too enthusiastic about food this early in the morning.

“Hey, Mick, are you alright?”

He looks up from the table to see Ian standing over him, plate in one hand and the other raised as if he wanted to reach out and touch Mickey’s shoulder, but thought better of it. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth pinched together.

“Yeah, fine. Shitty night’s sleep.” Mickey sounds more aggressive than he intends, and Ian hesitates a moment before turning around and sitting next to one of the other performers. It’s not as if Mickey minds — he doesn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. Especially not pushy acrobats.

—

He spends the morning moving boxes and equipment. He’s not given any time to rest or think and he’s grateful for the distraction, no matter how unpleasant the work is. He’d sent off a quick text to Mandy after breakfast, telling her he’d call her later in the day, and he’d gotten a text from Svetlana that consisted only of a party hat emoji and that’s the extent to which he’d communicated with anyone all day.

“Milkovich.” Cob’s voice is an unwelcome intrusion and Mickey’s back aches as he stands up and turns to face the man. “You’re working yourself too hard.”

“Just trying to get the job done.”

“You’re going to have finished a week’s worth of work at this point and I’m not paying you well enough for that. Go take a break. I’ll see you back after lunch.” That’s how Cob does it — the man has certainly noticed Mickey’s mood, but he’ll never say anything about it, which Mickey appreciates. 

What Mickey doesn’t appreciate is the free time he’s been given. He tries reading in his caravan for a bit, but he can’t concentrate, and he considers going out to get an early lunch before he remembers just how hot it is outside. He settles on grabbing a sandwich from the cookhouse and giving Mandy a call.

“What’s up?”

“Not much. Cob gave me the rest of the morning off and the boredom’s doing my head in.” They both know its not the boredom that Mickey hates about the time alone, but luckily Mandy chooses not to comment on it.

“You need to get yourself a hobby.”

“Fuck you, I’ve got hobbies.”

“Being an asshole isn’t a hobby, Mick. Why not try nude photography? Or flower arranging?” He can hear her giggle on the other end of the line and he rolls his eyes.

“I think that first one’s called pornography.”

“Yeah, you’d know something about that, wouldn’t you?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Oh, come on. The amount of times I had to erase your internet history because you forgot to turn on private browsing while watching ‘Big dic-“

“Jesus christ, Mandy.”

“Speaking of big things, how’s your crush on that redhead going?”

“I don’t have a fucking cr- no, you know what? I’m not getting into this, fuck you.”

Mandy hums in amusement, and he can picture her devilish expression — the raised eyebrows, the useless attempts to hide her grin — and his scowl deepens. His sister never knew when to drop it, and she was the goddamn pushiest person he knew.

Mickey glances around and — speaking of fucking pushy — notices Ian walking towards him, carrying a plate of food, so lunch must have started. Jesus christ. “Look, I gotta go.”

“Oh, is he there? Can I say hello to him? IAN!” She yells the last part, and Mickey almost drops the phone.

“Fuck, keep it down. Are you trying to make me fucking deaf?” He says, but there’s no real bite behind it and she only laughs. “Hanging up now.”

“Ugh, fine. Dickhead.”

“‘Bye bitch.” He hangs up before she has a chance to respond, and tucks the phone into his pocket. Ian pulls up a chair opposite him 

“I’m guessing that’s not your mother?” Ian’s attempt to look serious is ruined by the amusement in his eyes.

“Wow, Sherlock, what a guess,” he snaps, harsher than he’d intended to, and then he shrugs, as if that might soften the sting. “It’s Mandy.”

“What are you doing at lunch so early?” He explains about Cob and Ian laughs. “Wish I’d been given early leave. We had Jeremy helping us pack up the acrobatic equipment and the whole time he looked like he wanted to deck us.”

“He’s not the biggest fan of performers. Can’t say I blame him.” He intends it as a joke, but he knows it falls flat when Ian looks at him.

“God, Mick, you’ve been shitty all day, does Dan really snore that much?” He’s joking but he looks half serious, the concern in his eyes evident before he hastily tries to arrange his face into a neutral expression. It’s the nickname that does it, the shortening of his name that no one but Mandy has ever done and Mickey figures he owes it to the guy to at least explain.

“My dad died last night.”

Ian’s expression changes immediately, his eyebrows pulling together and his mouth pulling down. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, he was a shitty person and an even shittier parent.” Mickey shrugs. “It’s a relief, honestly.” 

“You don’t seem that relieved.”

Mickey shrugs again, looking away and down and anywhere but Ian’s earnest expression. He doesn’t push any further, which Mickey is grateful for. Instead, he turns back to his own plate of food and resumes eating, while Mickey waits in silence for a second before standing up and heading over to the main tent to pick up his own lunch.

He considers going to sit somewhere else, but the place he had before was one of the only remaining spots in the shade and the table’s only mildly dirty, so he heads back to where he’d been sitting. 

They sit in comfortable silence for several minutes before Ian shifts and out of the corner of his eye Mickey can see him place his empty plate beside him and stretch out his legs, leaning back so as to better catch the sunlight. Mickey makes the most of Ian’s preoccupation with sunbathing to watch the guy, tracing the pale skin and freckled shoulders showing beneath the green tank top, the straight nose and eyelashes so pale they’re almost invisible.

Ian shifts position to better face the sun, which startles Mickey out of his reverie and he turns back to his food as Ian opens his eyes, placing a hand across his forehead to shield his face from the sun.

“I love this kind of weather.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those fucking outdoorsy types,” Mickey groans, only half joking. “That’s a deal-breaker.”

“I go jogging every morning,” Ian replies pointedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“Shit yeah.” Mickey lowers his head onto his hands, pretending to groan. “I can just imagine you jogging through the woods or some shit, growing up on a mountain and picking mushrooms.”

“Mountain? Ha, try the Southside of Chicago.”

Mickey blinks. “You’re Southside? No fucking way.”

“What?” Ian looks half confused and half amused by Mickey’s reaction.

“Me too.”

“No shit,” Ian exclaims, sitting forwards.

“Well, spent a few years there. Only place I ever actually lived, besides a fucking caravan.”

Ian laughs, somewhat incredulous. 

“What?” Mickey asks, crossing his arms.

He quietens, his expression unreadable. “Who’d have thought we’d end up here?”

He’s right — at age eight, three years after his mother’s death, Mickey had started working in Terry’s circus. Dodgy and mostly a front for criminal dealings and people smuggling, the circus had been based in Chicago, so Mickey had spent about ten years there. When Mickey was nineteen Terry had been arrested and the circus fell apart, so Mickey, Mandy and Svetlana had moved into their own apartment. Mickey got a job doing construction, and then as a crew member for a circus.

“Not me.” _Glad I did, though_ , Mickey wants to add, but he doesn’t, because he’s not that stupid.

Ian smiles back at him, and he’s almost blinding. Mickey turns his head, looking away because he thinks if he looks much longer he’s likely to get swallowed whole.

“Milkovich, I want you on Le’s team after lunch. Get moving.” Cob’s voice is a welcome intrusion, pulling Mickey back into the present.

Lunch ends a couple of minutes after that, and the two of them pack up their plates and head their separate ways, Ian to the practise yard and Mickey to the big top. Twice he catches himself staring out of the tent flap, pinned over so it stays open, watching the people go past. If he angles himself a little to the left he can see where the acrobats are and thinks he might be able to make out Ian.

He forces himself to turn away and get back to work, moving around to the edge of the tent so he can’t see out of flap at all, determinedly training on his eyes on the ground as an extra measure. 

Fucking acrobats.

—

After the show has finished and the crowds have gone that night he’s given the job of setting up the curtains for the show the next day. Tomorrow’s a Saturday, so they hold one in the afternoon and one at night, which means double the work and Mickey’s keen to get as much done as possible before Cob becomes even more erratic and demanding, the usual symptoms of busy days.

The performers are packing away their props and costumes, storing them in one of the caravans before heading into another to remove makeup and get changed. There’s no sight of Ian, _not that Mickey’s looking_ , but it’s busy enough that he’d be easily missed in the flurry of post-show activity.

The air inside the tent is stale and humid, the collective exhalations of thousands of people in a room with poor ventilation mixing together in the confined space, and he’s keen to get out as fast as possible.

Stepping out and into the fresh night air less than twenty minutes later is a relief, and he’s content enough to stay outside for just a few minutes before heading back to bed. He’s just pulling out a cigarette when he hears a squeal. Ian comes into view, walking backwards and talking fast, quickly followed by what looks like, in the dark, a whole gaggle of people. 

Ian glances behind him and notices Mickey, slouched near the tent wall, and waves. “Hey,” he calls out, friendly as fucking ever.

One of the girls in the group — which Mickey realises consists of only a few people and not the dozens he’d originally thought — whispers something and Ian’s head whips back around, his arm reaching out to pretend to swat at her. They’ve come to a halt, the same girl saying something and Ian replying, the former shooting looks at Mickey every couple of seconds.

Mickey’s just about to put out the cigarette and head back to his caravan when the girl calls out, “Hey, Mickey.” Ian immediately tries to quiet her, but she waves at him from behind Ian’s arms.

Mickey raises an eyebrow but, realising it can’t be seen from that distance or in the dark, he’s forced to reply with a somewhat wary “yeah?”.

He can see Ian sigh, his shoulders outlined by the spotlight mounted near the tent, before the guy turns around and starts walking towards him. Once he’s a few metres away he glances at the group and then back at Mickey, sighing again.

“So, my family came to visit the show, and they were wondering if I could show them backstage, but it’s all locked up, and you’ve got a key and I was- they were wondering if you could unlock it for like ten minutes?” He says it all in a rush, running a hand through his hair.

“How’d she know my name?” He’s kind of surprised that’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, but he’s even more surprised when Ian blushes — the change of colour evident even in the poor light — and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. 

“I uh…must have mentioned you once. She’s really good with names.” He huffs out the last part, half amused and yet sounding almost apologetic.

“Right, well, uh-“ he pauses, and Ian sighs, turning slightly as if giving up already. “Sure.” Ian tries to hide his surprise but Mickey can see the raise of his eyebrows and lift of his shoulders. He’s not certain why he agrees — Cob will be livid if he finds out he let members of the public break into the backstage — but it might have something to do with the expression of relief and gratitude that floods Ian’s face.

“Thanks man. If you wanted to meet them-“ Mickey doesn’t really, but he figures that would be rude, so he shrugs a little, stamping out his cigarette on the ground and heading towards them.

“This is Fiona,” he says when they’re a little closer, pointing to a woman of around thirty with brown hair and the kind of expression that makes him feel like a specimen in a lab, being observed.

“You must be Mickey,” she says, holding out her hand. 

“Yeah, Ian’s mentioned you quite a bit.” Ian shoots a glare at the girl who said it, a redhead with nearly as many freckles as Ian. 

“Thanks, Debs,” Ian says with gritted teeth, shooting Mickey an apologetic look. “This is Debbie, and then Carl, Liam and Lip.” 

“Practically got your own circus right here, Gallagher, don’t know why you needed to run away,” Mickey mutters and the three youngest laugh but the oldest boy scowls, rolling his eyes a little. Mickey scowls back, and then turns back to Ian.

“If you’re gonna go, you’ll have to do it fast. Cob’ll skin me alive if he finds out so no touching anything.” He directs the last part at the rest of them, but it seems only Fiona’s paying any attention. He sighs and turns around, not checking to see if they follow, but certain they are once Ian falls into step beside him.

“Why do they want to see inside anyway?”

“They’ve never been to one of my performances before, guess they wanted to see what I was doing. And I think Fiona wants to check I’m safe.”

“Protective, huh?”

“Older sister, you know. She just worries.” His mouth has an ugly twist to it as he says it, as if her protectiveness hadn’t always been welcome.

Mickey doesn’t answer — can’t answer. He has no idea what it’s like to have protective family, one that loves them enough to see them perform in a circus, or cares if they’re safe. He only knows absent mothers and violent fathers, family that spent more time in jail than out. 

Of course, Mickey doesn’t know Ian’s home life — growing up on the Southside it was most likely pretty shit and almost certainly poor, but he’s not the type to assume and he’s certainly not the type to pry. What Gallagher told him was his business and Mickey has no right to want to know any more than he’s got.

It’s the sound of Ian’s name that pulls Mickey out of his reverie, and he looks up to realise they’re at the tent entrance already. He uses the key to unlock the padlocks keeping the tent zipped, and then steps back to let them inside. Safety lights are kept on during the night as extra security, but he doesn’t trust them near the equipment.

“Mick, you don’t need to-“

“If anything breaks it’s my balls on the line, man. You think I’d risk it?”

Ian rolls his eyes, as if to admonish Mickey for being over-cautious, but any reply is interrupted by the sound of something crashing to the ground, and a muffled yell.

“CARL!” Someone, presumably Fiona, yells from inside the tent, and Ian rushes inside, Mickey close behind. 

It turns out its only a tower of milk crates, which Mickey re-stacks as a barrier in front of some of the more delicate props. Ian gives them the grand tour of backstage, and Mickey looks away as they climb up the back of one of the sets to where Mickey had stood with Yev a few weeks earlier. Ian points out the tricks of his own performance, and Mickey tells him off for releasing trade secrets.

“Ooh, a conspiracy theorist? Think they’re here to steal our ideas and sell them to the highest bidder?”  
 “Fuck off Gallagher.” Ian’s grinning, and behind his shoulder his older brother has on a scowl, which makes Mickey grin more. 

“You never know who could be watching.” Ian glances around for effect and Mickey gives him the finger, getting up from where’s sitting on the bottom row of seats and heading towards the door. Ian shepherds his family out the tent door, and Mickey locks it behind them, making sure to rub out his boot print from the dirt around the entrance.

“Someone’s being pedantic.”

“Thorough, Gallagher, learn the difference.”

“Broken into many circus tents before?”

“Serial offender, actually.” 

Ian rolls his eyes, grinning. “Was that the precipitator or the result of your life of crime?”

“Who said I lived a life of crime?”

“The tattoos?”

“Fuck you. What if they’re ironic?”

Ian rolls his eyes, not even bothering to dignify that with a response. “I’m gonna say goodbye to my family. Thanks for letting us in.”

“You owe me big, Gallagher. Probably gonna take a deluxe burger _and_ fries to make up for it.”

Ian just shakes his head as he turns around, heading towards where his family is waiting a couple of metres away. His sisters raise their hands in farewell and Mickey nods, though he’s not sure whether they see him in the dark. 

He’s halfway towards his caravan when he abruptly changes direction, heading towards the perimeter fence and pulling out his second cigarette for the night. 

—

It’s a few minutes later — when the paper between his hands has all but burnt out — when he sees Ian walking towards him. For a moment he thinks it’s to say thanks again, but then he realises he must be near Ian’s caravan, because he’s on the edge of the performers’ section.

“And I thought my family was overenthusiastic.” Ian jumps, looking as if he hadn’t noticed Mickey there at all, before rolling his eyes.

“At least I was _in_ the show.”

“Look, the kid wanted to see what his dad had built —“ Mickey stops but it’s too late.

“Dad?” Ian furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

Mickey goes to put a hand on the back of his neck but the gesture feels so _Ian_ that he just ends up cupping his own chin, trying to avoid all eye contact.

It’s not that he’s ashamed, or embarrassed. He’d have told the guy himself, if it ever really came up. It’s mostly just that Yevgeny represents a part of him that he doesn’t feel really exists at the circus; he’s Mickey’s new life and this, the circus, is somehow separate. It still has the lingering remnants of Terry, despite it being a different circus, a different state.

But with Ian, it feels different. There’s nothing of Terry in Ian at all — it feels like he belongs in the same part of his life and Mandy and Yev and even Svetlana, the small circle that he’s created for himself in Chicago.

“I’m Yev’s dad.” He says it like an exhale, simultaneously pushing it out and feeling as if he has just removed a weight from his chest, something he didn’t even know was constricting. “He lives with his mother and Mandy in Chicago.”

"His mother...your wife?"

"Ex-wife."

“I’m sorry, I just assumed he was Mandy’s.”

“I let you assume.” Mickey shrugs. He might as well be honest with the guy now. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to know, I just…”

“I get it, Mick, it’s alright. There are just some things you wanna keep to yourself. I get it.” His face is blank, but his voice covers something harder, like velvet over an edge, and Mickey gets the feeling there’s something the guy’s not saying, but at the same time he has a feeling — ridiculous, maybe, but certain — that Ian’s not mad at _him_. He’s not going to press, though. The guy gave him the courtesy, and he’ll extend it back. 

“He was really nice, Yev was. You should be proud.” Ian smiles, a peace offering, letting Mickey know it’s alright, he’s not offended, he really does understand. 

“I am.” Mickey smiles back, and it’s just the corner of his mouth twitching, but Ian gets it, he gets that it’s Mickey’s way of saying thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and reviewing guys!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He misses his alarm, sleeps in and spills coffee on his shirt, but manages to arrive only five minutes late to an angry, and alone, Diane.
> 
> Her lips are pursed and her hands rest on her hips, fingers tapping her hipbones in an impatient rhythm. “Ian’s not here. I haven’t seen him all morning.”

A few days later Cob assigns Mickey to the rehearsal shift. Nicknamed the graveyard shift by the crew because of the nature of the job — rigging and re-rigging the sets for the performers. It had been the work of one of the other guys, but he’d sprained a wrist and Mickey was the backup. The work wasn’t hard but it was a complex series of rigs required, and Mickey would most likely be doing the same for the next week while the guy’s wrist healed. 

He’s scheduled to meet Diane and Ian at eight, to go over their portion of the show, and then he’d practice transitioning between each act, readjusting the trapeze and tissue rigging.

He misses his alarm, sleeps in and spills coffee on his shirt, but manages to arrive only five minutes late to an angry, and alone, Diane.

Her lips are pursed and her hands rest on her hips, fingers tapping her hipbones in an impatient rhythm. “Ian’s not here. I haven’t seen him all morning.”

“Don’t look at me, I only just got up,” Mickey admits, hands spread out in a gesture that’s half shrug and half a show of surrender. “He might have just slept in.”

“Ian doesn’t sleep in,” she says, each word short and sharp, “he gets up two hours early to go for a run.” She looks tense rather than aggressive, and Mickey knows it’s just the stress of the disrupted schedule, so he doesn’t take it personally. It’s a skill he’s learnt from living with Svetlana.

“How was he yesterday?” Mickey’s not certain why he cares, but he tells himself it’s for Diane’s sake.

“Didn’t see him. It was his day off and I think he spent the day sleeping.”

“Want me to check his bunk?”

She sighs and nods once before turning around sharply and heading towards the back of the tent, hands smoothing her ponytail with a forced patience. She’s obsessively punctual and runs a tight ship, the glue that holds the entire acrobat team together. She might tolerate newbies better than most, but she’s not big on second chances and Mickey pities Ian if it turns out he really did just sleep in.

He arrives at the caravan and knocks on the metal door, but hears no response from indoors. The door’s unlocked so Mickey pushes it open, intending to check if Ian’s still asleep. 

Instead, he finds Ian perched on his bed, a glass of water in one hand and a pill dispenser on his knees in front of him. 

Mickey must have made a noise because Ian glances over at him, looking surprised, and grabs the pill dispenser to tuck it behind him. 

“Hey man, Diane’s looking for you.”

“Shit.” Ian bites his lip, glancing towards the clock beside his bed. “I’ll be there in five.”

The hand holding the glass shakes and he puts it down on the table beside him. He runs a hand through his hair but his fingers are still visibly shaking and he clamps both hands in his lap.

“You okay, Gallagher?”

“Yeah.” He snaps, and the immediately looks guilty, softening his voice. “I’ll be out in five, meet you at the tent.” 

Mickey takes that as his cue to leave and he backs out of the caravan and pulls the door closed, heading back over towards where they’ll be practising. 

—

Ian seems fine when he returns fifteen minutes later, looking slightly dishevelled but ready to work. They spend twenty minutes explaining the rigging and then he meets the next performers. After he finishes learning individual acts he does a full run-through, rigging up each set in the order they’d appear in the show. 

It’s almost eleven by the time he’s done, and he’s directed to sideshow alley to help the guys re-turf the ground, which had been trampled by the hundreds of audience members traipsing through.

They stop around lunchtime, packing up the turf and pulling off their gloves, running their hands through sweat-soaked hair.

“Hey Mick.” He looks up from where he’s standing to see Ian, standing a couple of metres away, hands in the pockets of his ridiculous shorts. “Did you, uh, wanna go grab lunch?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, and Ian smiles, and for some reason it causes an unfamiliar twisting in Mickey’s stomach.

Fifteen minutes later they’re on their way to the burger place, walking in comfortable silence. There’s something about the guy that’s just comfortable to be around — in the middle of a conversation or totally silent, Mickey still feels completely at ease. 

The burger place is mostly empty — it being past lunch on a Tuesday — but Ian insists they sit in the park (“You spend so long in that tent, surely you’d wanna be outside?” “You go jogging, Gallagher, isn’t that enough of the great outdoors?”)

It’s not a far walk, but Mickey pretends to grumble anyway, sighing dramatically as Ian just smirks. “Look, if you walked a little faster you’d get to eat that burger.”

“I’m too hungry for this. Why’d I agree to skip lunch for this?”

“Because you can’t resist me. And the burgers are significantly better than what you’d get back at the site.” 

“You’re lucky I’m so weak from starvation, Gallagher, or I’d punch your goddamn freckled face.” Ian’s grin widens as he skips out of reach of Mickey’s pathetic attempt at a swing. 

“Yeah, yeah, blame me now but you’ll be glad I dragged you out here. Reckon if I have soup one more time I’ll quit the circus entirely.”

“Phew, I was wondering how I was gonna have to get rid of your ass.”

Ian pretends to look offended, giving Mickey the finger as best he can with the burger box in his hands.

It’s not until they’re settled, and Mickey is several large bites though his burger, that Mickey feels they’ve gotten to the real reason Ian wanted to get lunch. 

“Hey man-“ he begins. He looks uncomfortable, unsure of himself. “About this morning-“ It’s the hand through his hair that does it and Mickey interrupts before he knows what he’s saying.

“It’s okay man, you don’t gotta feel like you need to tell me anything. It’s cool.” He’s not trying to be dismissive, he just wants Ian to know that he doesn’t mind if Ian doesn’t want to tell him anything. Mickey’s got stuff he doesn’t tell anyone, he knows how it is. 

It looks like Ian gets it, because he smiles and despite the tightness of his eyes he looks genuine. 

“I still want to explain.” He shrugs, looking away, and then takes a deep breath as if steeling himself. “I’m bipolar. I’m on meds, and most days it’s fine, but some days…” He trails off. “I just wanted to explain, to let you know.” 

“What do you mean, ‘let me know’?”

He spreads his hands out in a hopeless gesture. “I just- I thought you should know. Before we became friends.” 

“Too late for that, man, reckon we’re already friends." Mickey can't deny that they are friends, but it still feels weird saying it out loud, as if it makes it more real, more serious. "And that’s ridiculous, ’t’s not like it’s a deal breaker.”

Ian shrugs. “It is for some.”

“Reckon you need to find some better friends.” Mickey shrugs. “Besides, if your big-ass family and jogging routine didn’t scare me off, then I doubt anything else will.” 

He grins at Ian and Ian grins back so he knows he gets it. He hopes Ian knows it would take a lot more than that to scare Mickey off, and its becoming increasingly apparent to Mickey that he’s really starting to care about the guy.

“Thanks,” Ian says, and just like that it’s done, back to just the two of them eating burgers on the park bench.

—

Mandy calls later that night, right when Mickey’s gotten into bed. 

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d started to miss me.”

“As if, douchebag.”

“Any news?”

She knows what he’s asking, even if he doesn’t say it. Any news about Terry. Any word from the rest of the family. Have they found out where the two of them live. Is Yev safe.

“Nothing.”

“How’s Svetlana?”

“Svet’s thrilled, of course. Took Yev out to dinner, with her girlfriend.” Mickey is surprised they’re still dating, must’ve been getting serious. “I met a guy, too.” It’s obvious even over the phone that she’s smiling, but she still sounds a little cautious. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and she takes it as a cue to continue. “He’s a lawyer, taken me out to dinner a couple of times.”

“Tell him if he fucks with you I’ll break his nose.” He ought to be happy for her, and he is, but he’s her older brother and he can’t help it. “Does Svet approve?”

Svetlana’s become Mickey’s remote douchebag-detector, for when he’s away. She might not have the same vested interest that Mickey does, but Svetlana and Mandy have become pretty close over the last few years, and she’s excellent at picking out assholes. 

“Hasn’t said anything yet, reckon she’s still making up her mind.” 

“I’ll be asking her what she thinks.” He can practically hear her eyeroll over the phone. 

“I told Ian about him and he seems to like the guy.” 

“You been talking to Gallagher?” 

“Yeah, we’ve been texting. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Mick, the guy’s perfect. Did you know he goes jogging every morning? He told me he’s been trying to get you to go with him.”

“Fucking acrobats,” Mickey snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, we all know you want to fuck that particular acrobat.”

“Fuck you, no I don’t,” he snarls.

“Uh, yes, you do.” He can practically hear her roll her eyes over the phone. “You want to bone him so ha-“

“I am not having this conversation with you.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure he wants the same.” 

“What do you — no, no, I am not talking about this with you.” 

She sighs heavily. “Fine. ’Night, douchebag.”

“‘Night bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only a couple of chapters to go!!  
> thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed x


	7. Chapter 7

Mickey wakes up to something dripping on his face. He glances up and sees water collecting on the edge of Dan’s bunk, spilling over and onto where Mickey’s face had stuck out past the edge of his mattress.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, rolling out of bed and looking up blearily. There’s a leak in the roof of their caravan that Dan, fast asleep and pressed up against the wall, hasn’t noticed yet. 

“Oi man, get up.” He shakes Dan’s leg, causing the other man to roll over and straight under the steady dripping.

“Jesus fuck, what’s this shit?” Dan mumbles as he sits up, narrowly missing bumping his head on the low ceiling. 

Mickey’s already grabbing his stuff off the bedside table and shoving it near the wall, out of the way of the water. Dan gets off the bed, avoiding the stream of drips, and starts moving their stuff.

Outside it’s steadily pouring, the product of several overcast days. The ground is sodden and it looks to have been raining for several hours.

“Shit,” Mickey sighs, pulling open the door and heading out into the downpour.

—

“It doesn’t look that bad to me.”

Cob surveys the damage, taking in the puddle of water collecting on the floor despite their attempts to mop it up and the wet patch spreading across Dan’s bed and, directly underneath it, across Mickey’s. 

“I’m not fucking sleeping here-“ Mickey begins but Cob cuts across him.

“I’m joking, Milkovich, we’ll find you both somewhere else. The big top’s soaked and we can’t let the props get damaged so I’m leaving you in charge of bedding arrangements, Le. A few of the other caravans might have been damaged and you can sort it out.”

“Why not Mickey?”

“Because most of the performers actually like you. Milkovich, they tolerate.” Mickey bristles at that but before he can reply Cob continues. “Besides, you’re still on my shit list for losing the box of wrenches.”

“But I found them,” Dan complains, but Cob holds out a hand to stop him. 

“But you _lost_ them,” he replies with a touch of humour and Dan scowls.

He heads back outside before pausing and turning back around. “Clean that mess up,” he growls, and then he’s striding across the muddy field towards the tents.

The rest of the day is miserable — the two of them cleaning up the inside of the caravan as best they can and then heading out to help waterproof the big top. Cob’s assumed a whole new level of authority, the type he usually reserves for moving day or opening night, directing people like a large-scale military operation. They pack up the props and erect covers over the storage caravans, moving quickly to ensure it’s done before any more develop leaks. 

Mickey’s absolutely soaked by lunchtime, and it’s too miserable to even have a cigarette, so they’re all forced to have lunch in the mess tent.

It turns out quite a few of the other caravans are leaking and a dozen people need somewhere to sleep until the rain clears up and they can call someone in to fix them. Dan gets their names, and then calls for people whose caravans are still dry to volunteer their floors. Mickey doesn’t bother going over, certain Dan will put down his name, instead parking himself on one of the benches.

He does notice Ian head over towards Dan, however, and the two talk for a minute; they both glance over at Mickey, Dan looking as if he’s trying to hold in a smirk. Mickey can’t hear them over the rain but he shows them both the finger for good measure before going back to eating his sandwich. 

Ian approaches him as he’s finishing, and Mickey notices he doesn’t look nearly as bedraggled as everyone else. The water is making his hair lie flatter against his head, and his skin is pale in the cold, making his freckles stand out even stronger. He wears only a tank top and jeans, looking far too put together for someone who’s spent all morning out in a storm. 

“Have you even been helping this morning, Gallagher?” Ian raises his eyebrows, coming to a halt in front of where Mickey’s seated.

“What makes you say that?” 

“You don’t look half as wet as the rest of us.”

“I brought a towel.” At Mickey’s raised eyebrow he continues. “What can I say, I come prepared.” He grins and even the strongest man would have trouble not grinning back, and Mickey’s not a strong man — especially not when confronted with Ian, see-through top stuck to his skin, arms bare, and cheeks flushed.

He realises he’s been sitting there for a couple of second and forces himself to say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Guess you didn’t go for a jog this morning?”

To his relief, Ian just laughs. “Thought about it but figured I’d be more likely to slip over and break something.”

“Couldn’t have you out of action for the big finale,” Mickey smirked and Ian shrugged, hands up in a fake display of modesty. 

A bell rings and Mickey glances up. “Looks like it’s back out into the cold.”

“I recommend a towel, it looks a little damp out there,” Ian says, an expression of exaggerated concern on his face. Mickey flips him the finger, but heads towards his leaking caravan anyway, grabbing a cap and towelling himself dry as best he can. 

He’s just resumed work inside the big top when Dan approaches, his phone out. “Mickey, noticed you didn’t come see me about a leak in your caravan.”

“We’re in the same caravan, dipshit. You know mine’s leaking.”

“Uh-uh, didn’t see me so I can’t help, or didn’t you hear my instructions?”

“Fuck. You.” Mickey groans. “Did you hear that alright?”

Dan tries to hide his shit-eating grin but fails miserably, obviously enjoying riling Mickey up. “Lucky for you we already got a volunteer.”

“Huh?”

“Ian. He volunteered to have you stay in his caravan.”

“Why’d he do that?” Mickey asks, startled. He hadn’t even mentioned his caravan to the guy.

“I don’t know, Mickey, maybe it’s because some people have a basic sense of human decency.”

“Fuck you, Le.”

“I’ll take that as a yes?” 

Mickey glowers for a second, before he relents and shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Make sure you thank the guy. Karen seemed real keen to sleep with him, in both senses of the word.”

“Sure thing, _mom_.” 

Dan sighs, rolling his eyes and heading off. 

—

It’s a few hours until Cob calls the end of work, sending them back to their caravans. The leak inside Mickey’s has gotten bigger, despite the tarp they attached over the tin roof, and the puddle is leaking underneath the door and onto the steps leading up to the entrance. Nothing important’s gotten wet but it’s a pain in the ass anyway. They mop the floor, grab the stuff they’ll need for the night, and head towards where they’ll be sleeping — Dan to one of the other crew member's and Mickey to Ian’s. 

It takes him a couple of minutes to find it among the sea of performer's caravans, most of which have been shifted because of the rain. He’s never actually been inside, and his memory of the one time he’d seen it pretty dim, but it couldn’t be that different to the one he slept in. He knocks hesitantly, and only then realises that he hadn’t actually spoken to Ian about this, but it's too late to worry about that at this point.

He hears the handle on the inside of the door turn and Ian appears, only his head visible poking out beside the door.

“Mickey!” He sounds surprised, but pulls the door open wider and steps back, revealing he’s dressed only in a towel and a pair of socks.

“Shit, you’re absolutely soaked.”

Mickey holds up the towel he’d brought and Ian grins, looking away and biting his lip. He looks downright gorgeous, hair wet and stomach chiselled, hipbones sloping down to where the towel is wrapped securely around him, and Mickey has to remind himself not to stare.

He turns away quickly when Ian glances up at him, his smile way too innocent for such an indecent appearance. “My roommate, Sully, took this opportunity to bunk with, uh, his _friend_ ,” Ian pauses on the last word, eyes rolling heavenwards for half a second, “so you can have his bed.” He indicates the top bunk.

“Right, thanks.”

“I’ve got chips, if you want some.” 

“Like a fucking slumber party,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head, but he reaches out for the packet Ian offers anyway, trying to ignore the guy’s self-satisfied smirk.

“I’ll uh, turn around…so you can get dressed,” Mickey mumbles, kicking off his shoes and sitting on the bottom bunk. He can hear Ian shuffling around, and there really isn’t much space so he finds himself staring at the window, slightly steamed and obscuring the view of the outside.

“Wanna smoke?” Ian asks, and Mickey turns around before he has time to consider whether Ian’s even dressed yet — Mickey’s half relieved and half disappointed to find the guy’s fully clothed.

“Thought you didn’t.”

Ian shrugs. “Special occasions. Besides, no one will be able to tell in the rain.”

“Not about to turn down free weed.”

Ian grins. “My brother hooked me up with some when he came to visit.”

“Not as much of an asshole as he looked, then.”

“Oh no, he definitely is, just an asshole with good weed.” Ian laughs, fishing a lighter out of his bedside table and lighting up the joint. The embers glow as he breathes in deep, exhaling long and slow.

 “Shit, I forgot the windows. Help me open them, will you?” 

Mickey twists around to help Ian tug open the window, though even with the two of them pushing hard it doesn’t budge, held shut by months of disuse. Ian readjusts his position, standing close enough to Mickey that their sides are pressed together from knee to shoulder, and they manage to shove it open. 

“Jesus, never realised how little I open them,” Ian mutters, picking up the joint he’d left on the ashtray he’d pulled from the bedside table. He inhales deep and then passes it over to Mickey; their hands brush and it’s like there’s a rush of electricity between them, and Mickey pulls his hand away hastily. He forces himself to look away, inhaling so fast he almost coughs.

It doesn’t take long for him to feel it, to feel himself relaxing, lying back against the wall. Ian’s sitting perpendicular, legs crossed and leaning against the headboard. They pass it back and forth between them for a few minutes in silence, content to watch the rain outside the window. 

“This is good stuff, man,” Mickey says when it’s down to only embers. 

“Thank Lip, he’s got good connections.”

“Don’t think he liked me,” Mickey muses.

“Don’t think he likes many people, so don’t take it personally.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Ian inexplicably smiles at that, looking away as if he’s trying to hide it.

“Didn’t seem too keen on the circus, either, or is he usually that unenthusiastic?”

Ian considers that for a moment. “Both. He wasn’t too keen on me joining in the first place. Don’t think he’s come round yet.”

“Said you ran away.”

“I did. Ran away with my mum. She, uh, she’s bipolar too, but she was never good at dealing with it.” His mouth pulls to the side, as if even that simple statement brings up more than he’s willing to get into, and then his expression hardens, and Mickey can feel him skip over some details. “Did a whole lot of stupid shit for money, joined this mostly illegal circus. Lip finally tracked me down in New York state and dragged me back home.” He reaches for the joint and Mickey passes it over.

“Got stable, started taking my meds, joined this place.” He looks almost bored, listing them as if on autopilot, but then he exhales and glances up at Mickey, suddenly looking almost nervous. Mickey kind of wants to reach out and smooth his thumb across the guy’s frown but it’s only the weed talking and he shakes himself out of it before he can do anything stupid.

“Kinda glad you ended up here, Gallagher,” he says, and then, because he finds any sort of emotion pretty fucking uncomfortable and Ian’s smile is just a couple of shades too brilliant, “or I’d be stuck with Dan’s shitty weed.”

“Glad I could be of service then, Mick.” He smiles like he gets it, and it seems like Ian does get it — like he gets everything that Mickey doesn’t, won’t or can’t say, and Mickey reckons it ought to scare him but it doesn’t, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

“You know, it is surprising we never met,” Ian says, a few minutes later out of the blue. 

“Huh?” Mickey responds stupidly, completely at a loss as to what they’re talking about.

“We never met. In the Southside.” He shrugs. “It’s weird, since we both lived there.” 

“Only spent a few years there, after Terry’s circus got shut down.”

“Terry?”

“My dad.”

Ian looks as if he’s about to say something in response, something consolatory or worse, pitying, and Mickey interrupts him. “Only went to school for a couple of years before I dropped out, anyway. And then a couple of years later I got an apartment, got out of the Southside.”

“With Mandy?” Mickey looks over at him sharply, and Ian looks a little sheepish at having asked at all. “She mentioned you guys lived together.”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s not sure why the question provoked such a reaction, but it’s probably because it’s about a part of his life he doesn’t often talk about. The guy looks so curious, though, but also as if he’s trying not to look curious for Mickey’s sake, that Mickey sighs, exhaling the smoke and passing over the joint. He reckons it’s a trade — the guy told him his (likely abbreviated) story, and he’ll do the same.

“When I was eighteen, I married Svetlana. It wasn’t- we weren’t in love, but she was pregnant and I figured that I wasn’t going to get much more than that. Terry got life a few months after the wedding, and we moved out. Svet and Mandy and me.”

There was more to it — the circumstances of the wedding, and of Svetlana falling pregnant, and Ian seems to know he’s not getting it all, but he also doesn’t seem to mind. Mickey reasons he probably understands what it’s like. 

“Yev?”

Ian’s already lying down, his blinks lasting several seconds and his breathing slowing down. He’s still awake enough to be following the conversation though, and he props his head on his arm in order to better look over at Mickey. 

“He was born a little after that. It was hard, at first. The only father I’d ever known had been a shitty, violent asshole and I was afraid I was gonna end up like that. It took a while, but the kid- having a kid changes you. And Yevgeny, you can’t not love him.”

“You’re something else, Mick.” It’s so quiet Mickey isn’t even sure Ian’s said it, because his eyes are closed and he looks almost asleep, so Mickey pats Ian’s leg and then heaves himself off the top bunk. He throws a blanket over Ian, reasoning that the guy is unlikely to wake soon judging by how much he’d smoked, and closes the window.

He pulls off his hoodie and climbs onto the top bunk, pulling up the covers. He’s intensely aware of Ian beneath him, unconsciously tracking every shift, every change in breathing, barely audible over the sound of the rain against the metal caravan roof. 

It’s that — the rain and Ian’s breathing — that he falls asleep to over an hour later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost at the end! a huge, huge thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed x


End file.
